


This Time I Won't Forget

by ialpiriel



Series: Do You Remember (Sole Survivor Mal) [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Androids, Angst, Cunnilingus, Existentialism, F/F, Robot/Human Relationships, Synth Sole Survivor, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5912701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/pseuds/ialpiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The f!survivor is...maybe not who she thinks she is. Maybe meets the person she was supposed to be. Maybe has a few impure thoughts along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Time I Won't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> **warnings:** major character death (offscreen), oblique discussion of the ethics of synth creation + exploitation
> 
> originally posted on the [fallout kink meme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/6855.html?thread=18162375#t18162375)

_Double-U, three, dash, nine, one_ , and she looks at the picture of her face. Looks at the mirror. Looks back at the photo, holds it up to compare. _W3-91. Mal_.

But _Mal_ is in her own quarters. That’s where Mal always is. The Scientists have given her that much knowledge, and enough of Mal’s memories that she understands why. Understands Mal. Understands her own function.

Her function is to forget these things, as soon as her programming is clean of bugs.

The Scientist behind her coughs, shuffles his feet. The Courser does not move. He doesn’t need to move. She doesn’t either, but her muscles twist the way Mal’s do, her body settles into its new parameters, muscles stretch and bones settle and air bellows in and out of her artificial lungs.

“Unit W3-91, reporting for duty, sir,” she tells The Scientist, as she turns. Does not look at The Courser. The Courser does not matter, here. The Scientist _does_.

“Good!” and The Scientist crows, grins, looks like he's about to clap his hands like--a child being presented a new toy. This is not her thought. This is Mal’s thought.

After a moment, she admits that this means it is also _her_ thought. The goal is that they are indistinguishable. If it is Mal’s thought, it is her thought.

“Follow me, W3,” The Scientist continues. The Courser is a non-entity. She notices. The Courser notices that she notices, but he does not say anything. She does not say anything. They are united in obedient silence.

The Scientist talks at her the entire time they walk. She looks at the picture as they go, holds it up and angles it to see if something about the face that stares back will change. It doesn’t. Same eyes, same freckles, same uneven tan between her shoulders and her face, same floppy hair, same jutting cheekbones and hollow cheeks and too-wide jaw that looks like it belongs to a comic book hero (Grognak, Manta-Man, The Silver Shroud, Mal’s memories of Nate’s words suggest), same plasma burn scars that crawl up her left jaw, mangled her left temple, left a pink knot that spills across her nose and forehead and over onto her right cheek below her eye, same droop in her mouth and eyelid and nose.

Except for her mode of dress, she is indistinguishable from a human.

 _Mal_ remembers a story in grade school, seven years old and reading a novel for children five years older, delighting in the idea of a robot that looks so human it cannot be distinguished from a human. Not like the clunky protectrons, or Mr. Handies. Not like the sentry bots and assaultrons the TVs show with blaring patriotic music. Not like the robo-dogs the TVs show too, sitting at their handlers feet, panting happily as their humans talk to news anchors and interviewers.

Mal remembers a story about a robot like W3-91. Mal remembers a story where someone like W3-91 is a villain, and someone else like W3-91 is a hero, and there are no sentry bots on the TV. There are no threats, there are no bombs. There is a man in an alley, a fedora tipped down over his face. There is a beautiful woman (beautiful to Mal in a detached way--attractive, the woman she could be, if she lost fifty pounds and poured herself into a slinky dress, bleached her hair, changed her face, wore lenses to change the color of her eyes--beautiful to Mal in an unobtainable way, someone to watch and emulate. Beautiful to W3-91 in a way that makes her mouth go dry and her stomach tight, press of imaginary fingers at the top of her spine, muscle jumping behind her ear as she tries to hold down the shiver.) There is a murder, a trail, an abandoned apartment splattered with black-shaded cartoon blood. A series discontinued because it will rot the children’s brains. Children drawing new stories anyway, coloring them with marker, passing them around at recess and at lunch.

Mal remembers stories of robots like the Gen 1’s, as W3-91 knows them. They are skeletons, her own insides without skin. In those stories, the skeleton-bots are evil, if they are anything at all. They’re henchmen, cannon-fodder, no more important than the fruit flies buzzing around the kitchen drain. _No more important than the synths working on the landscaping_ , W3-91 thinks as they step into the atrium. _They do not exist the way I do. The way The Scientist does. The way The Courser, or The Director, or Mal do._

Though The Courser does not exist, either.

But he Does Not Exist in a different way. He Does Not Exist because people do not want to think about him. The others, the Gen 1’s and Gen 2’s, Do Not Exist, merely because they are no more consequential than fruit flies around the kitchen drain.

The Scientist Exists. She Exists. She Exists because someone decided she must be made, that Mal was the sort of person who could claw her way out of a vault, break her fingernails in the dirt, find her way to the ones who are erasing synths. They have not lost many, but the ones they _have_ lost have _remained_ lost.

And she is here to find them.

The Scientist introduces her to her new dorm room, demands the picture back. She passes it to him. She has no need of it, when the same face stares back in the mirror.

The Scientist leaves, but The Courser stays. He is darker than her, though not by much. He does not look at her.

“I am to escort you to your duties as your personality and memory imprint are evaluated,” he says, and she nods.

***

W3-91 malfunctions the first week, awakes--or rather, doesn’t--catatonic on day three.

W3-91 malfunctions again, four days later, stops in the middle of her work, freezes, resets to default.

She malfunctions eight more times over the following three months, though only once does she express something that could be misinterpreted as free will.

***

“Ma’am,” W3 greets Mal. “Unit W3-91. I have been sent to converse with you and fill the gaps in my knowledge.”

Mal looks up from her book, startles when she sees her own face looking back at her. Rubs at the burns on her jaw.

“Do you have a nickname?” Mal asks.

“My fellow synths frequently call me W3, ma’am,” she replies, keeps her hands folded and her face blank. Can do this act well.

Mal stands, slides the door closed behind W3. Looks her over.

“Do synths have free will?” she asks. Keeps her eyes down. The future has taken its toll on her. Shaun will be three years old in a week. She has not seen him for four months. She does not leave this room.

“No, ma’am,” W3 responds. Stares straight ahead at the wall. Mal nods, steps to the side so she stands in W3's peripheral vision. Can study the scars crawling up the side of her face.

“Can synths lie?” Mal asks. Narrows her eyes.

W3 considers her answer.

“We are capable of lying, yes, ma’am.”

Mal steps around her again, stands so they face each other. Mal is a solid three inches shorter--still tall, in the stunted, rickets-prone human population of the Institute, short next to the synths--but she stands with her shoulders squared, her lantern-jaw-chin jutted out.

“Do you have free will?” Mal asks again. “I found the bugs they left in this room. I’m a lawyer, but I’m a tinker too. I’ve spent enough time in courtrooms full of clandestine recording equipment and discussion of methodology of use. They won’t hear what you say here.”

W3 considers, again, looks over the pilled wool blanket--a soft, faded blue--the speckled floor tiles--red, gray, gray-green on white--the eggshell-texture white curve of the wall--she only knows the texture of an eggshell because of this woman’s memories. Mal would not lie about this. Mal believes in determination of self, has been seen conversing with other Gen 3’s as if they were human. The Scientists say she’s off her rocker. Some strange throwback. Grieving her husband, maybe. She may be grieving, but that does not make her _stupid_.

“I possess free will, yes,” W3 agrees. Knows Mal will hold that secret safe.

“And the others?”

“All Gen 3’s possess free will,” W3 agrees. “Gen’s 1 and 2 do not, to my knowledge.”

Mal nods, goes and sits on the bed. W3 stays standing, keeps her hands folded behind her back.

“Do you dream?” Mal asks. “I heard some of the scientists talking about it, a few days ago.”

“I do,” W3 agrees.

“You can sit down if you’d like,” Mal offers, points to the swoopy white plastic table and its equally swoopy white-plastic-and-red-vinyl chairs.

“Thank you, ma’am.” W3 sits in the farthest chair, the one where she can watch the door. The one with the most distance between her and Mal. The most distance between her and the door.

They're both quiet a long minute. Mal fiddles with the bottom hem of her tunic. It’s loose across her waist, a men’s shirt she borrowed from someone else. Fits nicely across her stomach, her hips, her chest.

“What do you dream about?” Mal asks, finally.

“I dream about a lot of things,” W3 offers.

Mal gives her a look, and W3 grins back. Mal knew what was coming, and W3 knew what sort of face she would get out of Mal for that answer.

“What’s the last dream you had?”

And the last dream she had was B4-67 straddling her head, knees by W3’s ears, grinding down into her mouth. Screaming W3’s name, or maybe Mal’s, the two so twined together in her thoughts they’re inseparable anywhere but here.

“Are you sure you want to know?” W3 asks, leans in, grins. Mal raises her eyebrows.

“Is there a reason I wouldn’t want to know what I’m dreaming about?” Mal leans in too, though it doesn’t matter for much, all the way across the room.

“Dreamed about one of the gardeners. Used my mouth on her until she screamed.”

Mal shifts on the bed. Spreads her knees wider, folds her hands together, rests her forearms on her thighs so her hands are between her legs.

“Which gardener?” she asks.

“B4-67. Blonde hair, dark skin, pretty black eyes. Big broad shoulders. Just a little softness on her belly and her hips. Big thick thighs, all muscle. I see her out there every day, hauling bags of fertilizer.”

Mal closes her eyes.

“You've seen her naked?”

“Yeah,” W3 agrees. “Seen most synths naked. We come in three varieties, they just change skin tone and faces and hair and basic personality between us.” She grins. “If you’ve seen one penis, you’ve seen them all. Same goes for clits, honestly.”

“What about you?” Mal asks, cracks one eye.

“Except me,” W3 replies, grins wide. “I’m as lopsided as you are.”

Mal snorts, presses one hand to her mouth. “And the rest? They’re all symmetrical? Perfect?”

“Yeah,” W3 agrees. “Easier to produce that way. Only need one sculpting routine then.”

“Then what’s the point?” Mal asks.

“To see if they could do it,” W3 says. Folds her hands together, leans her elbows on the table. Presses her thumbs into her chin. “There’s no need for us to exist, except because of the hubris of man, Mal.”

Mal turns away, can’t look W3 in the eye, starts coughing.

It’s worse than it was. Will just continue to get worse. W3 doesn’t interrupt as the hacking picks up.

“I’m sorry,” Mal says, after her coughing ends. Lets the words hang between them.

“I know you are,” W3 says. “We’re goddamn bleeding hearts, and I know it.”

Mal laughs, looks back over at W3.

“So do you have any friends?”

“Attachments aren’t allowed by the institute,” W3 replies. “Attachments mean we’re too human. Attachments mean we can think, and feel, and dream.”

“You _do_ dream, though,” Mal points out.

“It’s safer to not form attachments. If the wrong person see you, you get wiped. Sometimes you just get retired, if it happens more than once. Too many bugs in the base code.”

“That’s a human rights violation,” Mal murmurs, unfolds her hands and runs one back through her hair. She stares at a point above W3’s head. “My partner would have a field day with it.”

“We’re not humans, Mal. We’re tools, robots. Remember the story books full of people like me?”

“I do, yeah,” Mal agrees. “Always loved them.” Pauses a moment. “Love them less now that they’re real.”

“Aw, you don’t love me?” W3 asks, grins. Teases. Nate teased the same way, so did his brothers, his parents, his whole contingent of cousins.

“I like you fine,” Mal replies, curves her shoulder toward W3. “I don’t know you, but I like you well enough.”

“I’m you, Mal,” W3 laughs. “Or at least close enough. If you shared it with them, I know it. I know how you feel about me.”

“I never shared that with them,” Mal replies, defensive. She scowls.

“But I know you well enough. I can extrapolate, Miss Scientific Method. You may have the law degree, but I’m you.”

Mal stands, and W3 hesitates before she stands too.

“I didn’t share everything,” Mal says, voice low. “I knew you would exist, and I--I wanted to keep some things for me.”

“They’ll erase me before they have me do anything,” W3 replies. “I lied about filling in the gaps. I just wanted to talk to you. Whatever you say here won’t affect the memories I’m distributed with.” She steps around the table, crosses her arms, sits back against it. Crosses her ankles.

“I hate them,” Mal says, voice soft. Soft enough Nate wouldn’t have been able to hear it, his ears shot from the explosives that sent him home. “I hate what they’ve done. I’m no computer expert, but they have enough books here that I learned. Kellogg killed everyone in that vault but me and Shaun. Didn’t hold a gun to them, but killed them all the same.”

“I know,” W3 agrees. “I know what they did.”

“I’ve seen Shaun once in the last six months, W3. He didn’t recognize me.”

“I know,” W3 says. She’s met Shaun, but he’s know she’s a synth. Can see himself in her face already. He recognizes her, recognizes Mal too, has the same wide flat nose and intractable cowlick, same black-brown eyes and the beginnings of freckles from the UV lights. They’ve sat at opposite sides of a table, him with a box of big blocky crayons and a coloring book that one of the scientists made for him, her with a pad of paper and a pen. She’s not an artist. Neither is Mal. Nate was. Shaun might still be. “I know, Mal.”

“So.” Mal sucks a deep breath, sits down again, pats her palms hard against her thighs. SMiles wide and fake. “What can I do to help you? What can I do to help the synths?”

“Nothing, from where you’re sitting,” W3 replies. “If you could influence Shaun, perhaps, since they have plans for him. If you could get a lien to the director, if you could get into the production system and fuck it up without being caught. If you could get a copy of a base personality code for even a half dozen synths, and get it to me or one of the others who wants out.” W3 shakes her head. “But you’re even more locked down than I am.”

“I can get around that,” Mal replies, furrows her brows, looks W3 in the eye, looks away after a moment, when W3 returns her gaze, raises her eyebrows. “Tell me what you need and I'll get it to you.”

W3 shakes her head. Tightens her arms over her chest, glances at the door before studying the scuffs on her shoes. She doesn’t walk like Mal, anymore. Swaggers, when there are no scientists around. Mal’s never swaggered except in a mirror.

“Risk is too great to both of us. Don’t even think about it.”

“If you say so,” Mal replies, looks at the crack at the bottom of the door. It’s going to come out of its runners one of these days.

Outside, in the atrium, a bell rings.

“My time here’s up,” W3 says, uncrosses her arms and her ankles, smooths down the front of her jumpsuit. “I’m needed elsewhere.”

“Wait, before you go--nothing changes what you remember, right?” Mal asks.

“Nope,” W3 replies, leans back against the table. Sticks her hands in her pockets, raises her eyebrows again.

“Okay. Okay.” Mal looks away, looks back, looks away again, looks up at W3 from under her eyebrows. “I like women too,” she says. “I didn’t tell them, but--”

W3 nods.

“They did a shit job, on that front,” W3 says, soft and low, rumbling out of her chest. “I know you loved Nate, know he loved you, but they’re not _my_ emotions. They’re yours.”

Mal looks away again, for real, nods.

“Okay,” she says again. “Okay.”

“That’s yours,” W3 replies. “You can keep that for yourself. We’re each other, but we’re not really, if that makes you feel better.”

“It does actually,” Mal laughs. “Makes me feel a lot better.”

“Glad to help,” W3 replies. “I'll be around this same time next week, if you wouldn't mind talking more?”

“Of course,” Mal agrees, nods. Wrings her fingers together, tugs at the bottom of her tunic again. “I’ll see you then.”

W3 nods, folds her hands behind her back as she approaches the door, settles her face into the blank apathetic mask she wears outside this room, steps out, lets her hands drop to her sides. Disappears down the hall without another word.

Mal presses her hands to her cheeks, hunches so she can rest her elbows on her knees.

Blows out a breath, watches a broken thread and three strands of hair on the floor blow with it.

***

Mal closes the door with a snap.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” she says.

“And so have I,” W3 agrees. Raises one eyebrow.

“You first,” Mal says after a frozen moment.

“How long has it been since you’ve been laid?” W3 asks. “Asking for a friend.” Lets her mouth twist up into a smirk. Cuts herself off before she winks.

Mal laughs, deep-chested and loud. “Oh, god, I was so afraid I was going to be weird about it, thank god.”

“So I guess that thought’s not just me, huh?” W3 asks. Steps further into the center of hte room, away from Mal, parallel to the bed.

“We got here by different thoughts because I sure as hell didn’t share _that_ thought with them.”

W3 laughs, tugs her zipper down to her cleavage. “Convergent evolution.”

“Or just a weird, ingrained desire to fuck yourself,” Mal points out, fiddles with the snap at her collar. “You're seriously alright with this?”

“Shit, yeah.” W3 unzips her jumpsuit to her belly button, then, rolls it off her shoulders so it hangs loose off her hips. Her tank top is grimy, riding up so Mal can see the elastic of her shorts above the zipper pull. “You’re not my superior in any way. You aren’t even part of the hierarchy.” She peels off her shirt, over her head. “I’m serious.”

She’s soft, all heavy curves, soft layer of fat covering muscle definition in all but her forearms. She bends forward to finish peeling her shirt off her arms, hunches her shoulders up so the muscles of her back all shift under the skin. Mal’s mouth goes dry, and she unsnaps her tunic, shakes it off and tosses it onto the couch just inside the door. Sends her bra after it, as W3 straighten up to watch her.

“You’ve lost a few pounds since they scanned you to make me,” W3 murmurs, nods in the general direction of Mal’s midsection. She has. It’s been hard to eat lately, her appetite chewed up by whatever version of the future flu she has this week.

“Do you think it’s a good look?” Mal replies, turns on one foot, props her foot up on her toes, poses one arm on her hip and one behind her head. Shows off her breasts, too, not just her sorta-slimmer profile. W3 doesn’t appear to notice, watches her face instead.

“Well, I’d say we look good no matter what we look like, but.” She unzips her jumpsuit to mid-thigh, kicks off her shoes--no laces, they’re slip-on shoes--and steps out of the suit. She’s tall, broad, sculpted calves but soft thighs, an idealized version of Mal--three inches taller, all her weight but more muscle, all of her so proportional. Looks a little too perfect, maybe, but maybe it’s just because Mal’s never seen herself naked and the right way around. “I might be biased,” W3 offers, sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth. “You oughta take your pants off,” she continues. “Don’t like being the only one naked here.”

“You're not even naked,” Mal replies, but kneels to untie her shoes. Kicks them off so they clatter against W3’s, peels her pants off and tosses them on top of her tunic. They stare at each other, W3 in her hand-me-down shorts, Mal in her never-pre-owned panties.

It’s W3 that steps into Mal’s space, doesn’t touch her, just looms, solid and open-stanced.

“You should get on the bed,” she says, lets it roll up out of her chest the way Mal only does when she’s in front of a courtroom, the sort that with the right projection can make the jury listen and care and quiver in their seats.

She complies, sits back on the bed, pushes her underwear down off her hips and onto her thighs. W3 drops to one knee in front of her, runs her palms up Mal’s calves, rests them on her knees, drags her fingers back down her shins. She hasn’t shaved in months, now, no need when all she ever wears pants and no one sees her without them, and what’s the use of it anyway? Her leg hair is fine enough it barely mattered before the war. W3 doesn’t seem to mind, presses a kiss to the inside of her right knee before tugging Mal’s underwear down the rest of the way.

“They only gave me some vague ideas of what you like,” W3 says, corner of her mouth--the droopy corner, her cheek slick with scarring--against Mal’s thigh. “Probably just whatever you told them, figured future me would fill in the gaps.”

Mal spreads her legs wider as W3 leans her weight into one, settles down so she’s kneeling, her weight on her knees as she points her toes back.

“Use your tongue,” Mal says. “On everything.”

“Knew that one,” W3 agrees, drops her shoulder so she can hook one of Mal’s knees over it.  Does the same on the other side a moment later. “What _didn’t_ you tell them?” Looks up through her eyelashes, wobbles her shoulders so Mal crosses her ankles behind her back, rests her hands on the outside curve of Mal’s thighs, just below her ass.

“Penetration,” Mal says. “Two fingers is good.”

“Mmm,” W3 agrees, runs her hands under Mal’s thighs, pushes them up and open more. Keeps moving inward, spreads one of Mal’s outer labia with her thumb, leans forward to trace her tongue along the inner labia it exposes. Does the same on the other side, with her other thumb, knocks her head side to side as mal’s legs tighten, keeps her from squeezign too hard.. “What would Nate do?” she asks, pulls back. Studies the vista in front of her appreciatively.

“Uhh,” Mal starts, moves one hand from her side and into W3’s hair, brushes it back off W3’s forehead. “Fingers, outside, bottom.”

“Got it,” W3 agrees, shifts her thumbs so they press together over Mal’s clit. Slowly draws them down, increases pressure as her thumbs frame either side of Mal’s opening. Pulls her fingers back up, repeats the motion, slow, steady, even, until Mal squirms forward, jerks her hips as best she can. “More?’ W3 asks.

“Try a finger,” Mal agrees.

W3 spreads Mal with one hand, slicks her index finger on the other. presses gently, maintains pressure as Mal squirms, twists her legs, grunts once, softly, until W3’s finger slides inside.

“Good?” W3 asks, pulses, searching. Mal grips her hair, moans.

‘Yeah, yeah,” Mal agrees. “Keep that up. Use your mouth too.”

W3 hums, leans in again, slides a second finger in, keeps up the short thrusts, never pulls her fingers out. Wraps her lips over Mal’s clit, laves at it with her tongue, pushes her head up into Mal’s hand as her fingers tighten in her hair.

“Just keep that up,” Mal grunts.

W3 obeys, keeps her fingers regular, the movement of her tongue to a rhythm, the gentle suck and release of her mouth. Leans in, hums as she sucks, leans in.

Mal continues running her hand through W3’s hair, breathes slow and even, rolls her hips on occasion. Comes easy and quiet, pulls away from W3’s hands and mouth, folds her hands into her lap. W3 sits back, scoots away on her knees when Mal uncrosses her ankles.

W3 wipes her fingers across her own thigh, rubs her hands together, wipes them both down her stomach and onto her thighs again.

“Let me return the favor,” Mal insists. Reaches out again. W3 ducks under her hand, bats it away.

“Leave it a favor,” W3 replies. She grins up at Mal. “I’m not supposed to be here, right now, should be down helping with tunnels.” She stands, then, bends to brush off her knees. scoosp up her shirt, pulls it on. Grabs her jumpsuit off the floor, steps back into it. Slides her feet into her shoes. runs her hands through her hair, checks its part. Shakes her head, once, sharp, short, gets everything back in order. Digs out a folded piece of paper from her pocket, drops it on the table, next to the notebook, the stacks of books, the pencils arranged deliberately next to it all. “Had a talk with a friend,” W3 says, zips her suit. “ you want something to do, that’s what you’ve got to work with. If anyone asks you why I was here, I asked some inane questions and then left. Nothing that would arouse suspicion.”

Mal looks at W3’s chest, at the door, leans forward on her hands. Rocks a bit, sighs.

“Right. We talked a bit, and then you left.”

“Yep,” W3 agrees, arranges herself back into the blank-faced, folded-hands skeleton of herself. “Thank you for your time, ma’am. Speaking with you is always very enlightening.”

“Of course, W3. Anything I can do to help,” Mal agrees. Stands, pulls on her pants and tunic as W3 watches, grabs the sheet of paper W3 dropped, folds it over again and holds it in her palm. “You’re dismissed,” she says, swallows hard as she hears W3 step away.

“Thank you, ma’am,” W3 says again.

Mal feels the cough crawl up her throat as W3’s footsteps recede down the hallway.

***

Mal dies of pneumonia five months later.

W3 is sent to the vault eight months later, four months after Shaun’s fourth birthday. He looks like Nate, more than he looks like Mal. He’s an artist, like Nate, his bedroom wallpapered with finger paintings and marker drawings and watercolors.

It’s Mal who crawls out of the cryotube, stomps a radroach to pulp with her boot, sits in the center of the elevator as it grinds its way up into the light. it’s Mal who walks back to her old house, cries when she sees Codsworth, shoots the bloatflies with shaking hands. Walks down toward Concord, clear air burning her lungs, the stretch after two hundred years of disuse burning in her calves and thighs.

But it’s W3 in the suit of armor, who hauls the minigun around, who hurls herself in front of the deathclaw so it grabs her, hauls her into the air, smashes her into the ground and sends her sprawling. W3 who turns the minigun on it again, who draws the combat knife as Preston fires the musket with a chest rattling _bwommmmmm_ , drives the knife up through the deathclaw’s throat as it tries to grab her again.

Blur together as she steps back into the museum. One person, solid, with a goal and an identity she knows to her bones.

Stays blurred for a good long time.


End file.
